Pure Temptation: Pure Escapades, #2

By Auria Jourdain

 

Jilted by his betrothed and desperate to escape his family's strict Gypsy ways, Talon Barberry leaves England behind when he's hired by a French extremist to kidnap a diplomat's daughter sailing to New Orleans. However, he discovers that he is merely a pawn in the Frenchman's game, and his target is actually a spy hired by the Cabildo—the most beautiful spy he's ever seen.

 

Hired to take her best friend's place on a ship bound for the West Indies, Talia Montrose uses her feminine wiles to seduce the handsome rogue sent to capture her. When they uncover the truth that she too is a victim of the Frenchman's evil plan, Talon agrees to protect her and save her family home.

 

Over land and sea, they surrender to their uncontrollable desire for one another. Uprooting his entire moral grounding, Talon defies his honor by falling for the creole seductress, and Talia loses her heart to the man willing to sacrifice his life for hers. But, it can never be: Talon is Romani, and his family would never approve of Talia. Conflicted by emotions, Talon realizes a little too late that he can't live without her. But will he be able to give up his traditions to live a life of happiness with the woman that stole his heart?

 

* This book contains steamy adult scenes. 18+ audience recommended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Auria Jourdain Books
• Release date: Jan 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781386161660

Auria Jourdain

History buff, Francophile, and hopeless romantic-- the perfect mixture for writing romance! I have fond childhood memories of reading on quiet afternoons. I loved the "happily ever after" sweet teen romances, but I quickly plunged into the world of historical romance--my get-away-from-real-life transporter. Add in a degree in Political Studies with six years of French--twenty years later, I found a new career. With three published works, I'm still trying to decide which sub-genre is my favorite. I started with historical romances, and two of the six, Pure of Heart and Pure Temptation, are now published. My first YA novel, Spirit of the Northwoods, was released in April of 2016 for my 17 year old autistic son during Autism Awareness month, hoping to spread familiarity about the daily struggles that an autistic person endures. Silence the Northwoods, the first book of my Romantic Suspense trilogy, will be released on January 21, 2017. A spin-off of Spirit of the Northwoods, it has many of the same secondary characters, but it’s strictly for adults. I have a New Adult novel I’m working on for NaNaWriMo 2016, and I’d love to try my hand at a sweet romance YA series in the future. I live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my husband of 21 years and my four children. I spend the long winters plotting and scheming my next book, and in the mild summers, my family and I spend every waking moment we can hiking and kayaking the Northwoods. Living fifteen miles from the shores of Lake Superior, my muse is often piqued by the awe-inspiring beauty that surrounds me. I live where I play, and I can't imagine a more fitting place for me!

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Copyright and Disclaimer

THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, or any business or organization are purely coincidental.

Copyright 2020, Auria Jourdain Books. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission from the author.

CAUTION: This book contains graphic adult scenes, adult language, and descriptions of violence that may trigger negative reactions. Suitable only for adult audiences as per your country’s laws.

Cover art and photography by Earth and Sky Photography. All images legally obtained from stock photo companies.

This book is also available in electronic form at all online retailers and in Paperback from Amazon.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my father, Duane Jordan, who died in 2018. He placed a deep love of history and politics within my soul when I was a young girl. Born and raised during the depression, my dad had seen more than most, and he made me aware of how important the common man is in our everyday lives. I will always treasure his vast wisdom and fascinating stories of life.

Acknowledgements

I COULDN’T HAVE WRITTEN this book without extensive research, and I read several wonderful books that gave me good insight into the Romani culture: American Gypsy by Oksana Marafioti and We Are the Romani People by Ian F. Hancock. The Romani have lived in a world full of hatred and intolerance for centuries, and I hope my book gives a good account of the prejudices people hold against these fascinating people.

Forward

I WROTE THIS STORY because I wanted Talon Barberry, one of my favorite characters from my first novel in this series, to have his happily ever after. Despite their status as fictional characters, I fell in love with Talia and Talon, and I hope I did their story justice.

I’ve taken some artistic liberties for the sake of my story, especially regarding some of the Romani traditions. I apologize to those whom it might offend. I hope my story will intrigue others to read more about the Roma culture. I concluded the gadjo (white man)—me included—will never fully understand the true traditions of these fascinating people, and perhaps we aren’t meant to.

New Orleans is one of my favorite places to visit, and I knew I wanted to write a historical romance that found it’s ending there. I’ve taken another historical liberty depicting the scene with the beignets and the café. The Acadians (Cajuns) brought the wonderful pastries with them from French Canada in the late 1700’s. The famous Café du Monde didn’t open its doors until 1862, even though I alluded to Talon and Talia’s presence in such a café.

Part of this story is set in the West Indies in the late eighteenth century. It is a fascinating place with a rich history steeped in pirates (or buccaneers, if you prefer), as the French, Spanish, and English colonists fought for dominance and tried their hand at sugar cane, and of course, the root of all evil, slavery.

I focused on Martinique and Guadeloupe because, despite being held by the British several times, the French influence in the West Indies is endearing to me. I do mention Saint Domingue (present day Haiti) several times because the slave rebellions during this period were most prevalent there. Even though the Haitian history didn’t fit what I wanted to accomplish with this book, I would love to someday write a novel set around their incredible tale of independence.

Prologue

GUADELOUPE, PORT CITY of Basse-Terre

June 1792

Are your boys prepared, Henri?

As the heat of the sultry night permeated the air, L’Archambeau wiped beads of sweat from his balding head. Clutching the gilded finial topping his claw-foot cane, he patiently stood at the ready. The waning moon peeped in and out of the dense cloud cover, and he smiled.

Lady luck guided their evening.

Henri Munro gazed at L’Archambeau, his broken French dialect whispering on the wind. "Oui, M’sieu Archambo. Where ’da weapons, sah?"

Nodding at his most loyal rebel, L’Archambeau patted the man on the back. "They’ll be here soon. I promised, mon ami. Oui?"

The Creole’s mouth curved into a toothy grin and he crouched lower. Shadows swallowed his dark form as he disappeared amongst the nearby palms and ferns.

As the din of the island’s nightly soirees overtook the evening, L’Archambeau searched the foliage surrounding him for Henri’s troops, hiding amongst the grasses of the surrounding mountains.

He couldn’t see a soul.

Taking a scope from his pocket, he scanned the harbor. Hopefully, those idiot Spaniards would get here soon. The much-needed munitions he’d promised his rebels were their saving grace. He’d been planning this for nigh on five years, his employer’s timely death giving way to his cause. Although, their quest had just begun.

6 Weeks Earlier

Hunched over his walking stick, Lord Thomas Smythe tapped his foot on the wooden floor. "Henry, make our guest comfortable. Mr. Chambers is a business associate of our esteemed Governor, Lord

Jonathan Taylor."

Oui, M’sieu.

Removing his cocked hat, L’Archambeau eyed his host. Smythe was a simpering idiot, but he’d been more than accommodating during his island trips. He bowed. Merci, Monsieur. I appreciate your hospitality. I will not dally in my business.

Henri bowed his head and gathered the bags. This way, M’sieu.

With a quick salute, L’Archambeau followed the manservant up the long, wooden staircase. He perused Henri. The man had aged considerably since his last visit. Beaten down by life, most likely.

As they approached the second-floor landing, L’Archambeau darted a glance over the railing. Sidling up to the slave, he grasped his bony shoulder. ’enri is it?

The man’s eyes widened as he halted. Oui, M’sieu.

What is your family name, ’enri?

With a furrowed brow, Henri tilted his head. "I belong to Massa

Smythe, M’sieu."

L’Archambeau arched an eyebrow. Perhaps. But you didn’t always serve him, n’est-ce pas? The slave gave him a sidelong glance and leaned over the banister. He shook his head.

L’Archambeau smiled. With the rebel raids in Saint Domingue fresh in people’s minds, plantation owners across the islands were looking for signs of mutinous slaves. Smythe would surely beat his servant if he overheard their conversation.

It was the perfect opportunity to strike.  

He cleared his throat. So, I ask again, Henri... What is your given name? My name is Monsieur Archambeau, and I trace my roots back to Paris, France. As Henri’s dark gaze searched his, L’Archambeau leaned over the man and whispered, And my actual business here is far more compelling than making a deal with the deplorable Jonathan Taylor. I’ve just come from Saint Domingue. The whites of the slave’s glimmered, and L’Archambeau nodded. Would you like to be free, mon ami?

Henri’s mouth gaped. M’sieu?

Placing his arm over the man’s shoulder, L’Archambeau pointed to his room. Come. I’ll tell you more.

The distant shot of gunfire jarred L’Archambeau from his reverie. Six weeks ago, Henri had taken back his family name. And everything was going according to plan. L’Archambeau had convinced the slave his intentions were pure—to fight for liberty in the colonies. With Henri’s connections, they’d gathered nearly four hundred rebels of all ages and sacked many a plantation, including Thomas Smythe’s.

Henri pulled on his sleeve. "M’sieu, ’dat be ’dem?"

L’Archambeau scoped the brigantine anchoring in the bay. A burst of crimson erupted over their heads, followed by a loud explosion. Patrons screamed, running to and fro along the city streets. Raising his cane, L’Archambeau turned to his protege with a smile.

"Allez-vous."

Jumping from the shadows, Henri waved his handkerchief high in the air. "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! Pour toute la monde!"

As his cry pierced the night, cheers erupted from the dense tropical foliage. Hundreds of men and women of color took to the streets. The French Revolutionary flag bolstered their cries, its colors signifying the freedom they sought.

As his compatriots bolted past him to storm the waiting ships in the harbor, Henri grinned. "We did it, M’sieu. We’s gonna free ’dem all."

Indeed. Nobody can stop us now. Tapping his cane on the wooden boardwalk, L’Archambeau patted Henri’s shoulder indulgently.

"What’s next, M’sieu?"

Now, we’ll help the rest of the world follow suit.

Henri raised his brow. "Nouvelle-Orleans?"

"Oui. We sail at daybreak." Tipping his hat, Henri scampered off like a wayward child.

L’Archambeau shook his head and sighed. It had been too easy to persuade Henri and his gullible people to join this cause. The notion of liberty was a farce, not to mention a calamity.

He’d spent years watching his fellow countrymen overthrow their king and burn France to the ground. For what? The sniveling weasel that had appointed himself Emperor?

The colonies were no different. After the uprisings in Saint Domingue, the newly freed indigenous folk could barely feed their families.

And soon, Guadeloupe will follow.

Anticipation tingled through L’Archambeau as he ambled toward his ship in the harbor. Personally, he didn’t care a wit for these poor wretches. They were a means to an end, no more. And he had a grander plan in mind.

After twenty long years of serving the French aristocracy, I’ll finally receive my just due.

Part One:

Spies

and

Bloody Lies

Chapter 1

NORTH LINCOLNSHIRE England

Six years prior, April 1792

We’re here to pay our respects to Mika Hawkes, loved by all. His wife and children grieve his long sickness, and we are thankful he’s no longer suffering...

Standing near his uncle’s casket, Talon Barberry stared across the crowded field at the Romani who had traveled from afar to pay their respects to one of the clan’s most beloved men. Menacing clouds darkened the sky like a foreboding omen. He shielded his eyes from the light rain.

As signs of spring filled the air, the fragrant crocus and newly sprouted grass filled his senses. The mix of the bitter with the sweet was all-too fitting for Mika’s wake.

We give him to God and eulogize him in song for his loyalty to his clan.

A despondent wail rose from the front as his aunt, Lala, flung herself over her husband’s casket. A proper Romani tribute, it was but one of the many dramatic interludes that would accompany his uncle to eternity.

As the priest proclaimed his uncle as honorable and loyal, an occasional cry of agreement joined him. Glancing over his shoulder, Talon’s jaw clenched. His cousin Contesse—Mika’s illegitimate daughter, no less—hid at the back of the crowd. As she shifted her sky-blue cloak to protect her translucent skin, Talon swallowed the rancid taste settling at the back of his throat.

He was weary of it all. 

Why were they celebrating the life of this man? Aye, Mika had adhered to tradition and married the woman his family had chosen for him. He’d remained devoted to his clan like a good Romani should. But he’d loved another and abandoned his daughter without looking back.

And her life had been hell since.

Talon pinched the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, he was destined to follow his uncle’s fate if Papa had his way. Not that he had a love child—or a woman for that matter. But now that his adventure was finished, the clan leaders were arranging his marriage whether he liked it or not.

It was the way of the Romani. All men were required to marry, breed, and take their rightful place in their clan’s society. As the oldest, he would follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps and eventually become the leader of his clan.

He wanted none of it.

The chants subsided. As the mourners bowed their heads in a final prayer, a melancholy tune resonated across the field. His brother Carlo nudged him.

Lifting the corner of the coffin, Talon and his cousins and brothers followed Lala to the graveside, carrying Mika to his final resting place. His cousins accompanied the chanteuses on their guitars and mandolins. More prayers were said. After they interred Mika in the earth, Talon brushed his dirt-laden hands on his breeches and stepped away to allow his aunt to grieve in peace.

Sadness overwhelmed him as he walked toward Contesse and her husband Eric. As her eyes swam with tears, Talon gave her a grim smile. Despite having known her birth father only a short time, she had become an integral part of their clan.

His father and grandfather had taken her in as one of their own against Lala’s protests that she was an interloper. Fortunately, honor had prevailed. Family bloodlines were thick... Romani blood was thicker than most.

But Contesse was different. With her pale skin and eyes, she stood out, just as Talon always had. She wasn’t really one of them, and there were days Talon felt the same. That’s why he’d spent years wandering the countryside, lost. At this point he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way.

At least his father had given him the chance. For nearly a year, he’d traversed the English countryside, trying to find happiness. Edouard Blanchefort, Contesse’s adoptive father, had hired him to protect her as she searched for her biological family. During their journey, they’d discovered her ties to the Romani people, including her relation to Mika. Unfortunately, her reunion with her birth father was short lived. He’d succumbed to the same disease that had taken Contesse’s mother over twenty years ago.

During their travels, Contesse had found herself—and her life’s purpose. Upon their stop in London, she’d fallen ill. Talon had sought out Eric McEwan, a doctor’s apprentice at a local apothecary shop, to aide her. As Eric nursed her back to health, they fell in love.

At least one of us got a happy ending.

With red-rimmed eyes, Contesse sniffled into her lace handkerchief. Eric stood by her side, holding Maggie, their year-old daughter, in his arms. Talon accepted his handshake and embraced Contesse. I’m glad you could make it. It would have meant the world to Mika.

She brushed the wetness from her cheeks. And now our adventure is over.

Glancing at her blooming belly, he smirked. For me perhaps. Seems you’ll be quite busy. He fingered Maggie’s brown curls, so like his sister, Mala’s. You go to Ireland from here?

Eric nodded. Aye. Grandfather is ready for me to begin my apprenticeship in Dublin. I loathe returning to the city, but in three years, I’ll be a doctor in my own right.

Talon arched an eyebrow. What of Dr. Radford and his lady love?

Brushing a hand across his cheek, Eric sighed. I owe Iain Radford for giving me a second chance, but we can’t stay. Despite our work with the druidic people, Cambridge refused to revoke my suspension. Trinity is offering me full tutelage under my grandfather’s watchful eye. Eric winked. Besides, Iain will get along fine without me. Madame Claire will keep him busy.

Talon chuckled. Of all the odd sorts of couples, Claire Carmadie and Iain Radford were certainly at the top of the list. They’ve settled in London then?

Aye. Baker, his senior apprentice, graduated, and Madame Claire left her druidic sect to assist Doc with his shop. He’s well-taken care of, I assure you.

Contesse placed her hand on Talon’s arm. What of you? Will you join your father and brothers breeding the horses?

He scratched his beard and huffed. I have no blasted clue. I’ve traveled for so long, off on one adventure after another. I’m not sure what the world has in store for me. He smiled ruefully. I suppose I’ll see where the winds take me. I am Romani, after all.

Pulling a wrought iron, even-armed cross from her neck, Contesse pressed it gently into his roughened hands. Perhaps this will guide you. I had no idea how much comfort this trinket would bring. Linking her arm with her husband’s, she placed her head on his shoulder. I’ve found my life. Perhaps this will help you find yours as well.

Talon swallowed the thickness lodged in his throat. Placing the cross in the pocket of his breeches, he lifted Contesse off her feet and embraced her. Thank you, cousin.

As Eric and Contesse took their leave, Talon squinted into the bleak horizon, his chest tingling. They were the only friends he had, and they were leaving him.

What in the bloody hell was he going to do now?

Six Years Later

Oxfordshire, England

June 1798

"No funny business tonight, Gypsy. I had to replace three windows because of your shenanigans last week."

As he entered the small pub just a few miles from the Romani camp, Talon dismissed the gadjo with a roll of his eyes. It had been a long spring bringing foals into the world. The last thing he needed was meaningless threats from ignorant folk. Right now, he needed to drown his troubles in alcohol.

Removing his hat, he walked to the bar and sank onto the wooden stool. Give me a whiskey.

Muttering an epithet, the barman poured a healthy dose of water in the glass along with the spirits and slid it across the bar. Talon caught his drink before it spilled. Throwing the miserable swill back, he demanded another.

I’m cuttin’ you off at three, mind. I don’ need your kind roughin’ up me customers.

Cursing under his breath, Talon pulled his hat lower and scowled. "Bloody git." He hadn’t started the fight with that young merchant—although he had thrown the first punch. The gadjo had accused Talon of stealing his wallet. The bartender found the man’s belongings in the privy, but no apologies were issued.

Instead, he spat on Talon and blamed his kind for being dirty thieves. Their drunken brawl had ended when Talon tossed the lad through the window. Damned if he’d stand there and take insults from a snot-nosed kid nearly ten years his junior.

Damn gadjos. He shook his head as he sipped his drink. Very few Englishmen understood his culture. Most were suspicious and treated his family like vermin.

According to the whites, the Romani were nothing but vagabonds living in hovels and wandering about the countryside, pillaging aimlessly. Apparently, his brethren also stole babies in the night and bamboozled the country folk with rituals and dark magic.

Although the Englishwomen had no qualms about giving up their coin to have their palms read during summer caravans. Perhaps it made the gadjos angry. They weren’t nearly as shrewd at business as the Romani.

"Filthy gypsies. They’re everywhere."

Narrowing his eyes, Talon scanned the pub. In the far corner, an older woman in a pink silk gown eyed him with haughty disdain. Her lips lifted into a sneer. Be mindful of your pocketbook, Francis.

Tapping his cane on the wooden floor, the man issued Talon a sidelong glance and shushed his wife. Gads, Lettie, don’t stare at the scoundrel. Bursting up, the man quickly paid the barkeep.

Scoundrel, am I? Leaning forward, Talon arched an eyebrow and smirked. That’s a fine cloak you’re wearing, sir. It’s been cold of late, and apparently I’m in need.

The barkeep groaned. The woman gasped. With wide eyes, the old man pulled his hat over his eyes and escorted his wife out the door.

Holding his arms wide, Talon glimpsed at his reflection in the large mirror behind the bar and muttered, The woman’s right, you bugger. You look and smell like shite. His unkempt curls limped to his shoulders as his coarse facial hair nearly touched his collarbone. His haggard wool breeches and white shirt hung from his limbs as if he hadn’t a thing to eat. His olive skin and long, dark hair usually made the locals suspicious, but he normally didn’t dress like the gamins occupying the streets of London.

At least he didn’t make a habit of putting on a show like many of his kin. Dressed in vibrant clothing, their caravans paraded through villages with the fanfare of a Parisian acting troupe. After spying for Edouard Blanchefort, Talon preferred to blend in. How could he hide in the shadows dressed so ostentatiously?

Still, he’d let himself go as of late. The sunken cheeks and circles rimming his dark eyes told the tale of a man who hadn’t slept well in years.

Tossing his drink back, he attempted to right himself on the barstool. He rubbed his aching joints with a groan. At two and thirty, he felt ancient. His knees and elbows no longer moved like they did when he was young. Some days it was hard to stand without hurting all over.

Nothing a little whiskey can’t solve.

He nipped another drink. The spirits coated his throat, numbing the heartache he’d endured the past year. His grandfather’s death had taken a toll on their family. As expected, his father Luca had taken his rightful place as voivode of their clan. As the eldest son, Talon had no choice but to manage their breeding operations.

But his heart wasn’t in it. Familial obligations had stifled his passion for life. His surly attitude often riled his brothers, causing dissension amongst the family and the clan. Unfortunately, their business had suffered.

Recently, his younger brother Carlo had taken matters into his own hands, and Talon handed over the reins without a fight.

The clan pariah.

Irritation niggled at his gut as he threw back his second drink. He had talents, but his clan refused to accept his unconventional ways. As a child, he’d had a gift for the dramatic. He’d dreamed of joining their family’s caravan horse act. His grandfather wanted Mika, their greatest showman, to train Talon. Mayhap that’s why spying came so easily.

But his aunts, uncles, and cousins mocked him with snide comments that he wasn’t a real man, that he was nothing more than the gypsy the gadjos painted him to be.

How could he argue? Indeed, wanderlust coursed through his veins like the very steeds he tried to tame.

It certainly hadn’t stopped his father from lecturing him every day about family expectations and honor. Luca wanted his children to be happy—as long as they led an honorable Romani life.

Raising a finger, Talon summoned the bartender. Pass me another, Keep. And don’t water it down this time.

Scowling, the man slid the cup down the counter. Last one. Then yer leavin’.

Mumbling a curse, Talon pursed his lips around the rim of the glass and drew in a sip. I’m too damn old for this bloody shite.

Since Talon had little interest in the business, Luca had set out to find him a good wife. Unfortunately, the prospects weren’t good. And his father was wasting his time. Talon had lost all hope for love and a family when his betrothed had run away with a gadjo eight years ago. Despite enduring the pain of losing his best friend and the love of his life, he’d had no choice but to carry on.

As the tangy liquid slid down his throat, he closed his eyes and let the whiskey engulf his body. He’d need it for the journey ahead.

A sennight past, Luca had approached him with an interesting prospect. Apparently, a French revolutionary needed assistance with a dangerous mission. Upon recommendation from one of Blanchefort’s loyalists, the man had sought Talon out. His gypsy soul conquered common sense and he begged his father to leave. And Luca had given him his consent—and his blessing.

Elation and guilt pummeled Talon’s heart like the summer rains. Aye, he was ready to escape his clan’s strict ways. But the blasé attitude of the rest of his clan didn’t give him much confidence. His brothers hadn’t spoken to him in days. His sister told him he needn’t bother returning. For all intents and purposes, his family had given up on him.

Not that he would have changed his mind. His bags were packed. Tomorrow, he would begin his life’s pursuit. Hopefully, he’d find a way to heal his broken soul.

The bell at the oak door clanged. Talon shielded his eyes, the warm afternoon sun blinding him. He scowled as the light cast his little brother’s silhouette upon the dingy wall.

Stiffening his shoulders, he hummed against the lip of his glass. Jesus, not now.

Tipping his hat at the barkeep congenially, Carlo requested an ale. Without invitation, he sat upon the stool next to Talon. As the bartender served his drink, Carlo tipped his glass against Talon’s in a silent toast.

Saint Carlo.

Talon’s mood darkened, the uncomfortable silence smothering them. He hadn’t always been a brooding jackass. At one time, he might have welcomed his responsibilities. When his mother had died giving birth to his baby sister, his responsibilities changed. While he spent his days catering to the only girl in their family, Carlo stepped up to help his father. Indeed, his other brothers still looked to Carlo for guidance.

As if reading Talon’s thoughts, Carlo sighed. You’re leaving us.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Talon muttered, Aye. At first light.

Carlo raked his fingers through his dark hair. "I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, brother. But I agree with Pa-

pa’s decision. Perhaps this trip will be good for you."

Talon glowered at him. The last thing he wanted was pity from

his younger brother. I don’t need your approval.

Carlo bit out, And I don’t understand your attitude. You’ve been ill-tempered since Granpapa died. Nay—since Lina left. You haven’t let anyone forget how miserable you are. Perhaps if you find your way, you’ll return in better spirits.

Jerking his head up, Talon slapped his brother on the back with a sneer. Thanks for mentioning Lina, Carlo. Makes me feel loads better.

I’m only trying to help. You don’t see me cursing the world, do you? I’ve lost just as much as you have... Mama and Granpapa. Narrowing his gaze, Talon arched an eyebrow. Have you, now?

Carlo blanched. Forget Lina. Papa can find you a good wife, one who makes you feel like a man.

Talon barked a laugh. Carlo’s wife, Mia, was a boorish and homely woman, although she had given him two sons. Long ago, Talon and Lina had talked of having a family. He’d longed for it... for children to fill his home with laughter.

Until she betrayed him.

Throwing the rest of his drink back, Talon swallowed. No way in hell, mate.

And why not?

Talon glowered at him. I haven’t found a woman I can tolerate.

I can’t imagine why, Carlo said dryly. "You have a winning personality."

Recoiling, Talon growled low in his throat. "Why does everyone think I need a woman to make me happy? They’re nothing but heartache."

If you say so. Draining his ale, Carlo replaced his hat and stood. "Papa accepts you for your peculiar ways, and as our voivode, I respect his wisdom. Go sow your wild oats. Placing his palms on the bar, he stared at Talon, his gaze unyielding. But remember this, big brother: wherever you go, whatever you do, you are Romani." Without another word, Carlo exited the pub.

Circling the rim of his glass with his finger, Talon stared after his brother in a stony silence. Despite his desire to adventure beyond their world, he could never forget his Romani ways. He had no intention of dishonoring his upbringing. His family values were ingrained in him.

Tossing some quid on the bar, he stuffed his favorite hat on his head and stood. To hell with his brothers, his clansmen, and Lina. If they couldn’t accept him, he’d find his place elsewhere.

Chapter 2

LONDON, ENGLAND

June 1798

I hate this blasted city.

Picking up his feet, Talon scowled as he tripped over a beggar woman lying in the street.

Watch yer head, mate!

From a living unit above, an old man slopped waste out the window. Covering his head with his hands, Talon ducked. Spatters of excrement covered his boots as the mess landed in the gutters. Hell and damnation, I just polished these!

Clenching his jaw, he stalked down the alleyway. He couldn’t wait to leave this godforsaken place. The city folk’s unsanitary ways would be the death of him. It was no wonder yellow fever and dysentery plagued England.

The streets were crowded and the inns were usually filthy. He’d refused to touch anything at the last place he stayed. Even though he’d shaken out the sheets, tingles infiltrated his skin as if parasites had already attacked. After enduring three days of poverty, filth, and congestion, he wanted nothing more than to return to the countryside.

However, not all was lost. He’d visited the apothecary to check on Iain Radford and Madame Claire for a spell. The obstinate woman still ordered the good doctor about. Fortunately, the man would toss it back to her when she stepped over the line. For all their bickering, they seemed happy and very much in love. It was more than Talon could claim for himself.

Scowling, he pushed the sentimental notions aside. He couldn’t think about such tripe. He needed to meet his new employer. Unfortunately, the details were sketchy.

Pulling the parchment from the horse satchel at his hip, he perused the messy script. The Frenchman, Colonel Michel DuPont, had summoned him to the headquarters of the Societé des Amis on La Rue du Temple in Paris. Once there, he was to use the password to get in. Loyalty.

Talon folded the paper and smirked. It seemed ridiculous and all too clandestine for him. Aye, during the revolution, he’d spied on royalty, diplomats, and scum of the earth, but Edouard had always informed him of his assignments before he accepted them. Talon knew nothing about this DuPont fellow, and his father hadn’t any further details. Just that he should go.

Only one way to find out.

Pulling his satchel over his shoulder, he gripped the straps and hurried toward the Thames. Walking along the wharves, he scanned the numerous dinghies, looking for his contact. At the end of the pier, an old fisherman waved him over. Barberry?

Talon glanced around. Aye. Who might you be?

Your blasted ride. The man darted a glance over his shoulder. Grabbing Talon’s arm, he ushered him to a keelboat bobbing on the river. Come, now. Don’ dillydally. You wanna cross the channel before dark sets, aye?

With a nervous wave of his hand, the man tipped his hat to a pair of Redcoats walking along the docks. Soldiers were everywhere. Sensing the skipper’s apprehension, Talon hastened his steps.

The fisherman grabbed his bag and threw it in the boat. Climb aboard. We be pushin’ off soon.

Talon glowered at the man. Show some respect, aye?

As the skipper ambled across the deck muttering under his breath, Talon settled on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches at the bow. Dread snaked down his spine. From the squirrely sailor to the shrouded details of this mission, he wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Not that he trusted anyone to give him the truth. It wasn’t in his nature.

The skipper and his son untied the ropes from the pylons and pushed the keelboat away from the dock. As they raised the sails, they tacked out of the small harbor as quickly as the wind would take them.

Once they were a safe distance from land, the skipper’s nervousness dissipated. Clapping Talon on the back, he leaned forward with a toothy grin. Heading into enemy territory, are ye? Yer a brave man, to be sure.

Talon grimaced at the portly chap that stunk of rotting fish. How do you mean?

There’s a war going on, mate. They be sending extra security to the harbors. Gettin’ our goods through is a nightmare, ’specially at Dover and Calais. Keep an eye out, aye?

Sitting upright, Talon scanned the horizon. You think we’ll run into trouble before we reach Calais?

The man’s son snickered. "Not likely. We got orders to take you to a more covert drop off."

Bugger! Talon’s heart thundered in his chest like a sudden storm. No wonder the man appeared jumpy. Shifting on the bench, Talon perused the harbor, hardly visible in the distance. His first instinct was to dive off the top of the boat, but that was no longer an option. They were too far out for him to swim back to shore.

Growling, he seized the skipper by his collar and pulled his knife from his boot. Who arranged this?

With wide eyes, the man held his hands over his head and cowered. "I just do wha’